Fiend's Fourth Hurdle

The scent of iron was oddly refreshing, like a breath of new life. For a man who had breathed disease and decay for long, it felt like tasting light for the first time. Perhaps the smell of anything other than the stench of rot and piss and blood-soaked soil would be regarded as refreshing to him.

He took the air in unhurriedly.

The room they had brought him to was wide and expansive. There were giant columns towered around him, pillars of grey stone carved straight from the mountain's bones, rising from floor to ceiling. The light here was bright, casting clean shadows, unlike the faint torch-glow that once shrouded the halls and dungeons of the Dust. The walls breathed space. The air didn't cling to the skin.

It was... different.

He leaned against a wall of cool stone, arms resting on the hilt of the Sword of Seren.

To his right, a corridor stretched long between walls of stone, old and unmoving. He turned left, glancing at another passage guarded by still-eyed soldiers in burnished steel, flanking iron-barred gates.

Another twin passages lay down the hall, but those remained unguarded with no gates to block.

In the center of this great chamber, gathered the heart of the place.

The Gladiators.

Dozens, perhaps more. Hundreds in number, one could guess roughly. They clumped in loose groups, speaking in low tones or simply existing like predators in the same forest.

Some wore what he knew well, simple scraps of leather and torn cloth, a familiar set of garments in the Dust Arena.

Apart from those risen from the Dust to Iron, there were some with clean armor, full plate, shining pauldrons, helms that smothered the head, visors lowered. Here and there, Caelvir saw these warriors suffocating beneath steel skins. Some bore longswords, others, massive claymores that looked heavy even in strong hands. There were lighter blades too, balanced and honed. He saw men with dueling swords and curved ones of foreign designs.

Mostly men, as expected.

But something pulled at his eye.

The Dust welcomed all, boys who hadn't bled yet, old men missing half their limbs, women pregnant or broken, slaves with nothing left, even the blind. But here... things were not the same.

He watched a few younger men, new meat, maybe, but he saw fewer of them compared to Dust. Most here walked like seasoned soldiers. The difference was in their gaze: Nohing like the trace of hollow fear or desperation as in the Dust. They rather possessed this strange air of sword and steel, and their movements told stories of their discipline and efforts. 

This place was not merely about surviving filth.

It was about fighting.

However, even in this house of warriors, there were figures who did not belong to this place.

Caelvir noticed a few women draped in gowns made for touch. They weaved through the chamber like threads of perfume and silk, hips swaying, eyes casting lures. They did not wear any blades or armor.

Caelvir frowned.

Why were they here?

He didn't chase the thought.

There were other anomalies too, men without the body or bearing of fighters. One or two, walking like they'd never seen a blade in their lives. They would be considered fresh meat.

Wasn't one supposed to pass the test of Dust to enter the Iron? Apparently not.

He didn't know why, nor did he care to make further inquiry in his thoughts.

He stood alone in the corner.

Some of the men from the wagon had already joined others, forming packs like wolves. They laughed quietly, exchanged gestures, as some spoke with lowered voices. Communities were born among them. Even here, men clung to tribe and kin.

Caelvir remained apart.

A few looked at him. He returned the gaze.

Some whispered. Most turned away.

He said nothing in return.

He scanned for familiarity, looking for Valkira's cold posture, the storm in her eyes. Caelvir failed to find Valkira here; perhaps she wasn't here. She could be fighting in another arena. Valkira definitely had mark of a House, so maybe she had her own room in the outside world.

He stopped himself.

Room, he thought. Instead of a cell...

Strange, that a word could carry so much promise.

Aelric wasn't here either. It made sense. Caelvir had finished first.

So... I arrived ahead of him, he whispered inwardly.

That's when a tap landed on his shoulder.

"You are a hundred years too young to get ahead of me."

His heart jumped.

He turned to the right.

A man stood there tall and thick with muscle, carved like an oak tree. Worn clothes draped him like a simple man of the Dust, loose pants, a threadbare shirt, and a torn robe hanging over his frame. He carried no armor or weapons, merely a calm smile and the scent of old woodsmoke and quiet mornings.

Caelvir knew that scent.

He knew the presence too.

"Ha," the man said, a small grin beneath his greying beard. "Surprise."

It made Caelvir smile, the kind that cracked through the stone of his face like sunlight breaking frost.

He pushed himself upright, standing taller.

"Aelric!"

His voice carried joy, unguarded and warm, and for a moment, Caelvir looked like a boy seeing his elder brother after a long journey.

"I see," Caelvir said, eyes shining, "so you finished your hundredth too."

"Hahaha," Aelric laughed, stroking his beard, "You thought I would not?"

Aelric's eyes softened. That kind stare of his, always unreadable between kindness and sorrow, lingered longer than usual as it scanned Caelvir's face.

"So that's how you look in the light," he said quietly, voice almost playful, "up close."

His hands moved forward awkwardly, almost comically, as if attempting to touch the non-existent iron bars between them.

He stepped in and laid a palm gently over Caelvir's chest, right above the heart.

"So that's what you are," Aelric murmured. "A man made of flesh. Definitely not a beast."

He smiled.

"Far gone the dark days of the dungeon."

Caelvir blinked. For a moment, he didn't move. The gesture was unexpected, but he responded with a smile as his lips lifted slowly.

"It seems you are more energetic," Aelric said, stepping back, giving him space. "Well... we all reflect the room we live in to some extent."

Caelvir nodded quietly, "I have you to thank. If not for your help and kindness..."

"Stop," Aelric cut in gently.

"What you are and what you have is all because of what you have done."

He held Caelvir's gaze.

"You just chose the right moment to strike. And you had the will to do it. As hard..." his voice dropped slightly, "as it might have been."

Those words carried a memory shared by both of them. They both felt the ripple of it. Silence followed and the moment—the joy of reunion—slipped into shadow.

Words of wisdom, cautioning one to treasure the moment, made them forget about the moment at hand.

Ironic.

Aelric looked regretful.

He blinked, shook his head slightly, and tried to change the air between them with a small clearing of the throat. A smile crept back onto his lips.

He chuckled. "But... let's not boast about the moments and numbers. We're both at a hundred."

"Unfair of you not to give me a visit before ascending the Dust," Aelric teased, "We are lucky to meet again here."

Caelvir's face grew playful too, voice teasing, "Well, old man, I did give you a visit. You had just gone to Gods know where."

"Hahaha... had I?" he laughed, "It's my bad then."

"An old man's memory fades quickly. I guess I must've fought my final match right after yours."

Caelvir responded with a smile.

Aelric's eyes were kind, and his shoulders looked broad, as his presence remained steady.

Caelvir saw guilt beneath those eyes and the quiet fracture behind the laughter.

He had heard once and seen: Aelric was a monk. A man of mercy and peace.

Of course it would hurt him to kill another man even after having taken so many.

But that's what made Aelric, well... Aelric.

Caelvir didn't speak the thought.

He just nodded.

For the first time since stepping foot into this iron arena, or perhaps for much longer than that, he did not feel alone.

Aelric stepped forward. His hand rose and came down with a firm, friendly tap on Caelvir's arm.

"Oh... you've grown quite a lot of muscles," he said. "You've become a fine man, Caelvir..."

He said the name gently, like handling something fragile. There was a pause before it left his mouth, and Caelvir noticed it.

"Heh... look at yourself too!" Caelvir said, voice playful. "When did you have all these muscles? Aren't you supposed to be an old man? I'm sure you didn't look this buffed!"

"Hahaha... I'm sure it's just your imagination. And I may be an old dude, but..." Aelric warned as a joke, "don't underestimate the elderly!"

They both laughed for a few seconds.

"Shall we take a walk?" Aelric asked, already turning slightly toward the corridor. "I can show you around."

"Sure," Caelvir replied.